the fireplace
The thought of tossing our baby in the fireplace first popped into my head a month or so ago. Around September, I’d say. Autumn was on its way, so—one lazy weekend, I figured I’d go ahead and get a leg up on winter and finally clean out that chimney. Get the flue all prepped for our first fire in our new house.
We were still only five months deep into our domestic bliss back then—no crisp nights curled up around the fire just yet. But before we even bought this place, all the way back when Chrissy and me first took a tour of the house—before it was ours, or anyone’s really, lingering within that liminal space between seller and buyer, with all those hopeful families wandering about its rooms like ghosts; inspecting every nook and cranny in some spectral attempt to decide whether or not this is the house we would want to haunt—I remember waltzing into the living room for the very first time and locking eyes onto that inglenook. Its thick brick. The oak beam reaching across the top. Its swan-necked ironworks looked like the blackened ribcage of some prehistoric beast burned to its bones, the charred chest cavity the only remnant of its primitive existence left behind. Whatever it had been.
Check out the fireplace, I said. Bet we’ll save a fortune on our heating bill with that thing.
Was that an offer I just heard? Chrissy whispered, hoping not to alert any of the other prospective homeowners that we were interested. ’Cause if it was, I can go find the realtor…
Down, Simba… Take it easy.
I hadn’t banked on the owners accepting our bid, to be honest. We were well beneath the listed asking price. I did it for Chrissy—but I knew there was no way in hell we’d ever get a house like this. Not on our annual income.
I mean—come on. An 1855 Victorian? With five bedrooms? Hardwood floors? There’s no way we could call this place home. Not with that fireplace beckoning. We’re talking the original chimney here. Nearly two hundred years old. The oldest part of the house at this point, I bet. The rest may have been remodeled over the years, but its brick bones remained, a spinal column of red clay holding this home upright.
We were crazy to’ve come to the open house in the first place. But Chrissy had begged to check it out. Outright begged. She’s always had real estate lust, spending her Sundays sifting through every last email alert agents send her way.
It felt wrong, being here. Playing house like this. Getting her hopes up. Watching her eyes widen the deeper into the house we went, deciding which room would be whose—this one’s ours, this one will be the baby’s—I knew, I just knew we were cruising toward heartbreak. She kept rubbing her belly like there was a genie in there, ready to grant her wish.
Don’t do this to yourself, hon, I warned her. Don’t get yourself all worked up.
But the owners saw something in us, I guess. Our family-to-be.
Me, Chrissy.
And Colin. Nothing but a bump in his mama’s tummy back then. He still had a few months in the oven to go before—Ding! Baby’s served…
* * *
I’d never cleaned a fireplace before.
Never had an actual fireplace to clean—so there you go. First time for everything, I guess… I am a man who now owns a fireplace, therefore I have become a man who must scrub it.
Chrissy had been feeding Colin in bed, so I had the inglenook all to myself. Gave us a chance to
get to know each other a little bit better.
It had a molded shelf embedded into the rear wall with a hinged spit-rack. A grand ol’ rack. Had to date back to when this house was originally built, all those years ago. Turn of the turn of whatever century. They must’ve roasted enormous joints of meat back then. Could’ve fed a whole coven with what they cooked on there, I bet.
Kneeling before the hearth, I pulled the fire dogs out to scrub the floor. The grate weighed a ton. Took both hands just to tug that iron giant’s ribcage out. Broke a sweat before I’d even started scrubbing, taking this metal-bristled brush and scraping at the interior walls. Swiping the soot away.
I was inside the fireplace now, on my hands and knees. Working on the rear wall. Tight, circular motions. Wax on, wax off… The grime never seemed to go away, though. Ten minutes of brandishing that brush over brick and it looked like I was just sweeping circles in the soot. This nibbling-on-tin sensation settled into my teeth. I could feel the steel bristles all the way up in my jaw, like chewing aluminum foil. Skrchskrchskrch. Throbbing right through me. My bones.
An exhale spread over my spine. I swear I felt somebody’s breath drop down my neck.
I turned around.
No one was behind me. The living room was completely empty.
Then I felt again. This time on my temples.
Glancing up, I felt a stray draft creep across my cheeks.
The chimney flue had been left open, that’s all. Just the wind, as they say.
Then something shifted.
Up there.
I couldn’t see very far up, couldn’t see much of anything—but my eyes tightened in on a pale shape centered within the brick funnel. A gray nimbus hovering in the darkness.
A baby.
I saw a baby. Trapped in the shadows. Its fetal form was curled into itself, crammed in the sooty womb of the flue. Its pale skin was covered in a layer of ash.
I reached up to touch it.
That’s what people do in these situations, yes? If you see something that shouldn’t be there—you poke it. Who cares about common
sense? I’m staring at a baby stuck in my chimney, for Christ’s sake. Of course I’m going to touch it.
The pressure from my pointer was enough to dislodge the infant from its floating position and fall onto my face with a hefty exhale of soot. I turned away from the plummeting bundle just as it dropped, so impact was actually on the back of my neck. I felt the softest thud, punctuated with a puff of ash, before it tumbled onto the bricks below.
I was breathing in way too much soot, coughing uncontrollably now. There was a solid three seconds of blurred vision. That cloud of ash slowly dissipated, clearing away to reveal—
A possum.
It must have been trapped in the chimney. Must’ve crawled down months ago and got itself stuck, starving itself to death up there. Its body was petrified, all its fur having fallen away, leaving behind its withered skin, covered in soot. Nothing but a mummified thing now.
Just a possum.
I figured it was best to get our little squatter out of the house before Chrissy saw it. She was not a fan of our furry four-legged neighbors, so I escorted the crispy critter by its shoestring tail, giving him a proper burial in our trash can among all the dirty diapers and coffee filters.
When I came back in, I could smell dinner cooking.
Buttery pork belly.
The halls were filled with it. My mouth was watering by the time I found Chrissy in the living room, bouncing Colin on her knee like a bucking baby bronco.
What’s cooking, good-looking?
Nothing as far as I know… Had my hands a little full here.
What’s up with the smell? I’m starving.
Chrissy gave me a look that would be put into constant rotation soon enough, hereunto categorized as—What the fuck are you talking about?
Sure enough, the oven wasn’t on. Our kitchen was still a work in progress. Most of our appliances hadn’t found a cupboard yet, still living
within their moving boxes. A dozen cardboard nested dolls claimed any and every inch of free space. All our cutlery and dishes remained stacked in quick-pickable piles along the countertop for easy take-out meals.
Not that the smell was coming from the kitchen, anyhow.
It was in the living room. From the fireplace.
Bacon fat frying in the pan.
You practicing for Santa or something? Chrissy asked. You’re all covered in soot.
I was cleaning the fireplace, I said. More to myself, but Chrissy answered anyway—Hate to break to it you, hon, but… I think the chimney won.
* * *
The house feels cold now.
Has for months. I’ve futzed with the thermostat and nothing seems to lift the chill. Every room I walk into, it feels as if I’m plunging into the tundra. My breath spreads out above me when I’m lying in bed. I’ve had to bundle up like it’s the middle of winter, two or three layers thick, pulling out the parkas from their moving box, just to keep from freezing. In August. It’s actually warmer outside than in. Chrissy looks at me like I’m nuts, which is the new norm now.
I could really use your help here, she muttered. Can you take Colin? Just for a minute?
What do we know about the house?
It’s old. She shrugged, irked at me for not spotting the immediate problem at hand. I know that much… Could you just take him? Please? I’ve got to start thinking about dinner. What’re you hungry for?
Colin was nothing but baby fat. Gripping him, I felt my hands sink into his sides. That plump swell of his pudgy tummy filling in around my fingers, like cement sealing us together.
Squishy brick and mortar.
When Colin was first cleared to come home from the hospital, I had given him the grand tour. This is your room, I
whispered. Most were still overwhelmed with moving boxes back then, the walls eclipsed in cardboard. Our plans for unpacking before Colin was born were quickly hijacked the moment Chrissy’s water broke. Not that we minded. We had our nest now. We had all the time in the world to settle in. Make this place feel like home. This is where your mommy and daddy sleep… or where we’re gonna try to sleep, as long as you let us. And this…
This was the living room.
Her hearth had a thick cast-iron plate, surrounded by a brick enclosure. The entire house would embrace a fire, the heat circulating through the halls and swelling up within each room like the chambers of a heart filling up with blood. And on the spit-rack, roasting on the iron, a sizzling victual. Its delectable aroma filled the house. Grease dripping off the shank. Hits the hearth in this thin dribble. Each drip sizzles against the iron plate, bubbling over—hsss.
Hsssss…
Hsssss…
Chrissy’s noticed I’ve been avoiding the living room. I turn in early now. Wrap myself up in a duvet and call it a night.
What gives? She asked. You avoiding us?
She asked if I wanted to light a fire. As if that would solve all our problems. Just tossed it out there last night, completely casual, like it’d popped into her mind—Hey. How about a fire?
The fuck did you just say?
Jesus… Don’t snap at me.
What did you say?
A fire, she fumed. All I asked was if you wanted to light a fire.
Chrissy’s breath smelled like peat. Decayed plant matter in her mouth. I could even see bits of turf in between her teeth. Tongue covered in earth. People used to harvest the peat from the bogs, carving out thick, sodden bricks, leaving them out to dry under the sun before bringing them inside and stacking them up in the inglenook. Those bricks burned slowly. The softest kind of kindling. Smokeless. Endless. It would warm the house for days and never die
out. Warm its halls with dead vegetables and decrepit sedges, the pocosins and moss, compressed within the muck and mire of a thousand years, the bones of beasts long forgotten, lost to the bogs, the boreal peatlands slowing down their decomposition beneath our feet, now a fire, methane flames blooming in a beautiful blue, dancing about the hearth like will-o’-wisps. The aurora borealis in our living room.
Forget it, she muttered. You’re the one who’s always complaining about how cold it is.
I went to bed instead. Curled up into a cocoon of my duvet and tried to hide.
* * *
The house is only growing colder. Colder. Winter is nearly here. We’re going to have to light a fire before long.
But I’m afraid what’ll happen when we do.
What kind of kindling she’ll need.
Colin woke us up last night, crying. It was late. Had to be three or four in the morning. I could hear him wailing, his voice drifting down the hall. Chrissy rolled over and mumbled for me to check on him. I pretended to be asleep, but that didn’t fly.
Your turn, she mumbled, nudging me with her elbow. It’s your turn…
A jolt of cold shot right up my legs the second my bare feet touched the hardwood floor. My ribs seized, locking on to my lungs, like an iron grate gripping at the air in my chest.
Colin wasn’t in his room. Nothing but moving boxes everywhere. I could hear the soft pads of his fingertips grazing against the cardboard of one—so I opened it. Only I found a shriveled possum curled inside. Its withered pink tail looked more like an umbilical cord to me. The crying’s coming from elsewhere. A different room in the house.
The living room.
I feel warmer the further down the hall I wander. A gentle breath brushes against my skin, drawing me in.
Warmer…
Warmer…
The fire’s blazing. Our first fire in the house.
It’s so warm in here.
There’s a woman standing by the hearth. Her back is to me. For a moment, I think it’s Chrissy—but no. This woman is much older. I see leaves tangled up in her gray hair. She turns just enough for her chin to reach over her shoulder. Her face is a dried riverbed of wrinkles. The one eye I see is fogged over. It’s all milky to me.
She’s smiling as she stirs.
There’s a pot on the fireplace’s hook. It’s simmering. I can’t see what she’s cooking, but the pot boils over. Each drip sizzles against the iron plate along her hearth.
Hsss…
Hsss…
Hsss…
The woman holds out a wooden spoon to me, offering me a sip.
The broth is salty. And sweet. Like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.
Butter on my tongue.
So I ask for more.
cyan, magenta, yellow, and key
The brave boys from Bear Scout Troop 237 were Pastor Nat’s crusaders against corruption. His defenders of decency. His righteous knights of the highest order. These scrupulous scouts had exceeded the highest of the pastor’s expectations, gathering around a thousand comic books, all told, for their purification drive. Each uniformed boy shuffled up with a Radio Flyer filled to its hilt with comics confiscated from around town, dumping the smut into a heaping pile for all to see.
These boys had purged the pharmacies of their indecencies.
They had eradicated the newsstands of their filth.
Here was the cancer that had crept into their small town, insinuating its sinfulness within the minds of the youngest, most innocent citizens, stacked six feet high and rising.
Mount Pornography.
Their flimsy pages flittered in the wind as the heap kept growing. Swelling. Toppling over in an avalanche of sex and violence. Wanton lust. Repugnant busts. Nothing but pages upon pages of illustrated licentiousness.
Keep ’em coming, boys, Pastor Nat called out. Toss ’em all in! Every last comic… I want our pyre to reach as high as the heavens!
L’il Lonnie Wilder couldn’t even reach the peak anymore. When it was his turn to contribute his comics to the pile, that poor pudgy boy had to drag his feet up to the fire and lift himself up onto his tippy-toes, holding his shoe box over his head and shake them all out, each filthy issue showering down.
Tales of Terror.
Killer Comics.
Crime Pays and You’re Buying.
L’il Lonnie didn’t realize that Nat was well aware of the fact that this was his own personal stash. The pastor knew he was a peruser of these prurient pamphlets. All through Sunday school, he’d find L’il Lonnie flipping through the pages of one of his so-called horror comics. He’d confiscate it faster than you can say sodomite—but just like the head on a hydra, the very next Sunday, out sprouted another copy. The pastor had a whole file cabinet crammed full of comics commandeered from none other than L’il Lonnie. His poor saint of a mother had high hopes that the Bear Scouts would pull him out of his lecherous shell. Build up some character in him. Add a dash of moral fiber to flush out his objectionable habits once and for all.
Well, you better believe the pastor put in a personal call to Mrs. Wilder first thing after kick-starting his comic campaign, suggesting she might look under L’il Lonnie’s bed mattress to see if he might be squandering a copy or two that she might wish to contribute to their crusade.
And me oh my, what a treasure trove of atrocities did Mrs. Wilder find waiting for her…
Bare-Knuckle Bulletin.
Fearsome Funnies.
Sci-Fi Sarcophagus.
Poor L’il Lonnie had tears in his eyes. He’d been at the back of the line for quite some time, letting every other troop member step ahead of him. Seemed to Nat that the kid was stalling, as if he thought Nat would decide at the last minute they had enough kindling and L’il Lonnie could keep his comics.
What’ve we got here, scout? The pastor pinched Lonnie’s copy of Petrified Pages from the back of his belt loop, as if he couldn’t see it poking out from the boy’s pants. As if he’d actually spare it. Were you hiding this from
me, Lonnie?
No, sir…
Don’t mumble now. Speak up.
Yes, Pastor Nat, sir.
Pastor Nat flipped through, glancing over all the decapitations and half-dressed harlots running from lumbering corpses. An endless parade of four-color fornication.
His eyes halted upon a particular story—if you could call it a story—some pornographic paean to a cloven-hoofed demon of some sort. Lord only knows what kind of debauchee comes up with this stuff. He was only half-reading it, to be honest, impatiently perusing the pictures as if to prove a point to our L’il Lonnie here that he would not tolerate harboring smut such as this.
Frankly, Nat wasn’t sure what exactly he was looking at. Some necrotic abomination. It had the blackest skin. Red eyes sunk deep into its sockets. And if he wasn’t mistaken, there, between its legs, dangled what he could only presume was a grinning python. His fingers just so happened to rub over the image. Its black-as-pitch visage smudged, cheap ink smearing across his skin. It burned.
Do you find these types of stories entertaining, young man? Pastor Nat held the foulness up to L’il Lonnie’s face, practically pressing the page against the boy’s perspiring cheek. Do you enjoy the objectification of the female form? The reverie of rape and murder? Do you, Lonnie?
No, Pastor Nat, sir…
Look at me when I’m speaking to you. Do you know what you’re doing to your poor mother, reading this rubbish? Do you know what you’re doing to yourself? To your own mind? I imagine it must look like Swiss cheese by now. Cramming it full of stories of this… deca—
Decarabrian. He hissed its name with such venom. Lonnie snapped his head up at Nat, pinching his eyes into the thinnest slits, each crabapple cheek turning a deep purple.
There was defiance in those beady eyes.
Pastor Nat saw rage.
It’s indecent is what it is, young man, and it has no place in our homes. He rolled up the copy of Petrified Pages into a tight tube, as tight as he could, a four-colored fagot for their comic-book conflagration. Which is why I want you to have the honor of lighting the fire,
Don’t mumble now. Speak up.
Yes, Pastor Nat, sir.
Pastor Nat flipped through, glancing over all the decapitations and half-dressed harlots running from lumbering corpses. An endless parade of four-color fornication.
His eyes halted upon a particular story—if you could call it a story—some pornographic paean to a cloven-hoofed demon of some sort. Lord only knows what kind of debauchee comes up with this stuff. He was only half-reading it, to be honest, impatiently perusing the pictures as if to prove a point to our L’il Lonnie here that he would not tolerate harboring smut such as this.
Frankly, Nat wasn’t sure what exactly he was looking at. Some necrotic abomination. It had the blackest skin. Red eyes sunk deep into its sockets. And if he wasn’t mistaken, there, between its legs, dangled what he could only presume was a grinning python. His fingers just so happened to rub over the image. Its black-as-pitch visage smudged, cheap ink smearing across his skin. It burned.
Do you find these types of stories entertaining, young man? Pastor Nat held the foulness up to L’il Lonnie’s face, practically pressing the page against the boy’s perspiring cheek. Do you enjoy the objectification of the female form? The reverie of rape and murder? Do you, Lonnie?
No, Pastor Nat, sir…
Look at me when I’m speaking to you. Do you know what you’re doing to your poor mother, reading this rubbish? Do you know what you’re doing to yourself? To your own mind? I imagine it must look like Swiss cheese by now. Cramming it full of stories of this… deca—
Decarabrian. He hissed its name with such venom. Lonnie snapped his head up at Nat, pinching his eyes into the thinnest slits, each crabapple cheek turning a deep purple.
There was defiance in those beady eyes.
Pastor Nat saw rage.
It’s indecent is what it is, young man, and it has no place in our homes. He rolled up the copy of Petrified Pages into a tight tube, as tight as he could, a four-colored fagot for their comic-book conflagration. Which is why I want you to have the honor of lighting the fire, Lonnie…
Click! The flash of a camera briefly blinded Pastor Nat, flaring up before him. It took a few blinks to bat the spots away. He had put in a call to the local newspaper to cover today’s event. He’d given them the exact time and place—noon on Saturday in our church’s parking lot. He even waited an additional twenty minutes after their designated start time just to be sure the photographer had arrived.
Showtime, folks…
We have gathered here today to take a stand against the insidious rise of comic books within our community, Pastor Nat announced to his prepubescent audience. There had to be over three dozen boys circled around the mound by now. Their doe-eyed future. It is our firm belief that this type of literature poses a morally objectionable threat to the mental and physical well-being of our children—which is why, today, before the watchful eyes of our lord and savior, and our parents, we pledge to commit these desecrations on the page to whence they came.
It was utterly unnecessary, Pastor Nat knew, but he went ahead and soused the pile with a hefty dose of lighter fluid, ...
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